Justina: Daughter of Spartacus (Justina Saga Book 1)

by Ryan Lew

  As Brutus left, Livius’ thoughts returned to Servilia and the time the two shared. It was a lifetime ago, but the memories played like pictures in his mind. After a few moments, he finished his glass and looked over at Cato, who remained standing, arms crossed. The two men shared a knowing smile.

  Chapter 6

  Loud, provocative moans filled the bedchamber

  Caesar had her bent over the bed and was taking her from behind, his thrusts hard and purposeful. She reveled in the power, the force, and the confidence with which the thrusts were delivered. But it was all about Caesar. All about how he felt. It’s not that Servilia didn’t enjoy sex with Caesar. She did. It’s just that every act was designed to ensure his pleasure. When he mounted her, he did so for one reason only—to drive himself into her as hard and deep as possible. If she reached orgasm, it was simply an accidental byproduct of his enjoyment. And she knew, no matter what, it was her responsibility to made sure he always believed she had one. Caesar needed that; he needed to know he always, without fail, satisfied his woman.

  But today, she would have no problem reaching orgasm. Today, her Caesar was satisfying her. She moaned with every thrust, clenching her fists as she tightly clutched the bed sheets. Caesar groaned loudly, and she felt him climaxing inside her.

  “Yes, yes, yes…” Servilia yelled out over and over again as the throws of pain and delight racked her body.

  When he was finished, Caesar withdrew himself, grabbed his tunic, and began dressing, leaving her spent, still bent over the bed. It took her several minutes to catch her breath and regain her composure. She finally climbed onto the bed and lay in the sheets, her body still tingling. Caesar had made her feel sexy this evening, and she wanted that feeling to engulf her.

  Servilia watched her man attend to items on his desk. Caesar was a tall man with a body forged in battle, one he took great care to keep that way. He had powerful arms, a strong, firm chest, and sturdy legs. But it wasn’t just Caesar’s body that Servilia found attractive. Caesar was a handsome man with a full face, fair complexion, and intense, dark eyes. Though he spent most of his time with a furrowed brow, when he did smile, it lightened her heart.

  Servilia had been married once to Marcus Junius Brutus the Elder, a tribune in the Roman Republic. Like Caesar, Brutus the Elder was a powerful man, one who went to war for his beliefs after the death of Sulla the Dictator. But then, Brutus was opposed by Pompey and assassinated by one of his men. When he died, Servilia’s dreams of status and position died with him. It had taken her years to recover. Now she was here, in Caesar’s bedchamber, playing the role of his mistress.

  Servilia had been blessed with a body built for pleasing a man. Though she just turned fifty, she hadn’t lost her touch, and her appearance looked much more of someone fifteen years younger. She moaned as required, even screamed out his name at the appropriate time, much to his assured satisfaction. Servilia knew exactly how to satisfy a man, how to make him feel he could stay harder, last longer, and fulfill her more than any other could possibly even try.

  “I hope I helped bring you to a satisfying finish, my love,” she said.

  Caesar stood with his back toward the bed. “You meet a need,” he said, “and Caesar will do just fine when you address me.”

  The comment brought an abrupt end to Servilia’s tingle, and she sat up straight. Servilia understood her position. She knew she was not Caesar’s wife, but she also knew Caesar’s union to Calpurnia, his third wife, was a marriage of convenience, one meant to cement his position in society. She was much younger than him, and he did not love her. He most likely did not love anyone. Still, Servilia did not enjoy being reminded of her position.

  “Well, I’m glad I could be of help to the mighty Caesar,” Servilia said and began gathering her clothing from around the bed. “Your wife should join us one eve.”

  Caesar moved closer to Servilia, putting his face next to hers. “My wife cannot please me the way you do.”

  Servilia smiled, despite herself.

  “You also keep me from having to bed a slave,” he added. “I suppose I should be grateful. The thought of sticking my cock inside a dog sounds more pleasing. At least you keep me from making that regretful decision. If ever you find me bedding a slave, please have me crucified for that transgression.” Caesar kissed her, smiled, and returned to his desk.

  Servilia was no longer smiling. “We have shared a bed for years. Can you not look beyond the flesh and see the woman? Will you not look upon me as a proper Roman woman?”

  “Sex is sex, Servilia,” Caesar said. “Do not confuse it with anything else. I show you favor by not keeping you close. You would only bring me distraction and tempt my enemies with dreams of large ransoms. If you want me to show you favor, simply keep your legs spread and your mouth closed. You are not part of Rome’s elite. You are not my wife. Be patient and enjoy what we have.”

  Servilia stood at the side of the bed and finished dressing. Her mood had soured. “I’ll take my leave when my son arrives. Pray your ‘whore’ finds safe passage home or you may be forced to take that slave girl after all.” She paused. “Or would it be a slave boy? Sometimes I cannot be certain with you.” Servilia couldn’t help but test Caesar’s patience. He had hurt her, and she wanted to hurt him back.

  Caesar showed no reaction to the comment. “Where is that son of yours? Off to the market for his fifth meal of the day?”

  “He is paying homage to the boy whose parents were murdered last night.”

  “Ahh, yes!” Caesar said with a smirk. “I quickly dispatched one of those slaves myself just this morning. Her hands were still stained with Roman blood. It is a simple pleasure. The importance of which, the senate is far too ignorant to comprehend. Instead of the sword, they deal death with words that put to slumber anyone foolish enough to listen. There is no fear generated by killing with words. Thrusting a sword through a man, or woman, now that commands attention. Attention that demands respect.”

  And just like that, Servilia’s mood changed back. The man in front of her was powerful, intoxicating. She felt the passion spreading through her again. It was the same power she felt only moments earlier as he thrusted himself inside her. She involuntarily placed her hand under her robes, between her thighs, and would have moaned had not a knock come on the door to Caesar’s bedchamber.

  Caesar granted permission to enter, and a young legionnaire came into the room. Servilia quickly pulled her hand from beneath her robes. Caesar did not look up from his desk. The soldier hit his chest plate with his fist, then extended his arm. “Caesar, Brutus comes for Servilia.”

  Not waiting for permission, Brutus entered the room. Caesar looked up, dismissed the legionnaire, and then walked over to Brutus.

  “Tell me, Brutus, did you pass any whores on your way in? Boys or girls, either will do.” Caesar flashed Servilia a quick glance, then returned his attention to her son. He placed his arm around Brutus and drew him close.

  Brutus stiffened. “I know of no whores, Caesar, but I have met with the centurion who killed the murderous slave this morning. A great man to have in your command.”

  “Your centurion takes credit undue. It was Legatus Braccius who butchered that pig,” Caesar told him. “You should guard that naiveté, Brutus. It could become your undoing.” He patted Brutus on the chest.

  “They seemed so sure, I…”

  “I know men, Brutus,” Caesar said as he withdrew his arm. “I know men who choose to do as they wish and men who follow orders.” He walked backed to his desk. “Braccius and I are of similar mind, and while I do grant him some liberties, it is fortunate for him that he left me some fun of my own.” He picked up a set of documents and continued without looking at Brutus. “No Brutus, your centurion did not kill this day, but he will have ample opportunity in the future. Now take leave with your mother. I need to wash off her stench. My guards will see you home safely.”

  Still intoxicated, Servilia walked up to Caesar and kissed him deeply,
intently, pressing herself against him. As she pulled away, she let her hand fall slowly down Caesar’s chest, turned and walked away. “Come Brutus,” she said. “It’s time we go home.”

  Brutus stood for a moment looking at Caesar who had returned his attention to his documents. If he had just been kissed that way, his knees probably would have buckled, but not Caesar. It didn’t even seem to affect him at all. Brutus was about to speak, but thought better of it, turned, and followed his mother out the door.

  Chapter 7

  Justina was on Fabricius’ mind as he made his way down the hallway. When he heard voices coming from her room, he stopped. It was imprudent to peek inside, but he found himself unable to resist.

  “Who does Atilius think he is?” Justina asked. “What makes him think he’s better than you? Just because he was born a free man?”

  There sat his sister on the bed, uncharacteristically clothed in a maroon dress with a fine lace bodice, looking more like she’d rather be wearing the coarse woolen tunic and metal strips of a legionnaire. Justina was speaking to Antonia, one of the house slaves, who was combing her hair. Although she seemed to enjoy it, Fabricius knew Justina would be just as happy tucking it up inside a helmet. The thought brought a smile.

  Fabricius understood his sister. He knew she never felt comfortable in what their mother would call “the robes appropriate for a woman of her stature.” She never understood the need to bathe oneself in the aroma of flowers or to garnish oneself with sparkling jewels. Still, he was surprised at how the dress and accompanying jewels suited her. His sister had long ago discarded the strappings of a young girl and had grown into a comely young woman.

  Something must have happened between her and Atilius. Fabricius wasn’t surprised. Justina and Atilius never seemed to bond. Even as children, Atilius never held back. When they all would play, sword in hand, Atilius would strike Justina just as hard as he would strike his brothers. At times, Fabricius even had to step in. Justina would run crying to their father. Atilius would find himself in trouble, but it would have no effect on him. The two tangled constantly as children. Lately, those tangles were growing in intensity.

  “You didn’t ask to be a slave,” Justina continued, “You haven’t committed some crime that would cause your station. You were simply born into slavery. How is that just? How does that make Atilius, or anyone else, better than you?”

  “He scares me,” Antonia admitted. Justina turned. There were tears in Antonia’s eyes. “This is the only room in which I do not feel like a slave.”

  Justina cupped Antonia’s face in her hands. “Oh Antonia, in this room, you are not a slave,” she said. “In this room, you are not even my friend. Here, you are my sister.” Antonia smiled and the two hugged.

  Antonia was the youngest slave in the house, just slightly younger than Justina. She had no siblings, no one with which to play, argue, or confide. Her parents had died when she was young. Being both an orphan and a slave, growing up had to have been difficult. Being so close in age, and with neither having an actual sister, it was only natural that Antonia and Justina formed a bond—a sisterhood. Something that was a most certainly a comfort to them, but an annoyance to others on both sides of the wall.

  “The thought of his hands on you,” Justina said, as they embraced. “I will never let anyone hurt you.”

  “I long for the day that we are truly sisters,” Antonia said.

  Fabricius took the opportunity to knock. “May I enter,” he asked and pushed the door open just enough to stick his head inside. The aroma of flowers drifted from the room.

  “Of course, brother,” Justina said and sat a little straighter. “You are always welcome,” she added, then rose to greet him with a hug.

  Fabricius embraced his sister. He glanced over at Antonia who quickly looked down when his eyes caught hers. If he wasn’t mistaken, she was blushing.

  “Come, sit.” Justina took her brother by the hand and lead him to the bed. Antonia moved as the two sat. “Is it true that Lucilius favors us with his presence for, perhaps, more than a day?”

  “Are you sure politics isn’t where your heart truly lies, dear sister?” Fabricius asked. “You ask questions to which you clearly know the answer.”

  Justina flashed a coy smile. “Answers, brother, which I’d prefer not be true. I am concerned with the bitter concoction Atilius and our new guest brew by their association.”

  Despite what his father had said, Fabricius was worried as well. He patted his sister’s hand. “It is only temporary, Justina. Father says he is better here where his anger can, shall we say, be curtailed.” He hoped his words would reduce her apprehension, even if he didn’t believe them himself.

  “I suppose,” Justina said.

  “You know, Justina, you are the only one who has not asked to hear what happened last evening. Are you not curious to learn the gory details of Lucilius’ parents’ murder or wonder who might next befall a similar tragedy?”

  Justina slid closer to her brother still holding his hand. “I do not need to hear gory details to understand the tragedy that has befallen Lucilius.” She squeezed his hand. “I fear Rome has not seen the last of these attacks, and you standing between them brings me nothing but worry. What would I do without my big, strong brother to guide me through this life?” Justina smiled and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  He returned his sister’s smile, then addressed Antonia. “Would you give us pardon?”

  Antonia looked to Justina for guidance. When Justina nodded, Antonia stood and headed for the door.

  “Please close it behind you,” Fabricius said and watched her leave, waiting before he continued. When the door closed, he returned his attention to Justina.

  “Your concern for me is appreciated, but unfounded. You must put your faith in the gods Justina, for what happens to your big brother. It is in their hands.”

  Justina gave him another hug.

  He returned her embrace. She was warm against him and smelled of fine flowers. There was little in the day’s events that had made him happy, or brought him comfort. This was one. After a moment he pulled back, then stood. “We have other matters to discuss.”

  Justina looked concerned. “What is it, brother?”

  “Your words, Justina, so outspoken.” He paced. “It is not womanly, and it is not wise. These words, these ideas, the ones you so freely say within these walls must now remain purely your thoughts, not to be uttered.”

  Justina sat upright and crossed her arms. “I do not favor being censured or quieted in my own house, Fabricius.”

  He stopped and faced his sister. “You create danger, Justina. Lucilius could take your opinions as not favoring the empire. He is a member of the Roman army and anyone who does not believe as we do, or as we are told to believe, causes friction. Dangerous friction.”

  “So you would have me remain a dumb mute?”

  Fabricius sat back down and took his sister’s hands. “Of course not, Justina. I am perfectly happy with you just the way you are, and in this house, your thoughts are always welcome.”

  “For the most part.”

  “Indeed, for the most part,” he conceded. “But with an outsider staying among us,” he paused. “Certainly, you can see the danger in speaking one’s mind, acting as one is not expected to act.”

  “As a woman, you mean.”

  “Yes, and as an owner of slaves. Just now, your encounter with Antonia was more of equals. I know that is your nature, and it is one of the many things I love about you, sister, but you must keep vigilant and act the part until our guest is gone. I cannot stress this enough. It is of the utmost importance.”

  Justina’s face turned a ruby red as the heat rushed to her cheeks.

  “Really Justina, it is but for a little while. I am not asking you to change. I am simply asking you to use caution. There are wolves among us.”

  Justina suddenly stood, arms still crossed. His talk was having the opposite effect he had hoped. He stood and place
d his hands on her shoulders. “If you cannot stop completely, can you at least tone it down?”

  The comment brought Justina to laughter. An unexpected laughter. Fabricius couldn’t help but join in.

  Justina turned to face her brother. “I will hold my tongue and play nice. I understand it is slaves that took Lucilius’ parents’ lives, and I’m sure that Lucilius’ hatred toward slaves in general has grown as a result. I will do this for you, brother. But only you.”

  Fabricius smiled. “Thank you.”

  “But I will want a favor in return.”

  His smile wavered. “Of course, if it is within my power.”

  Justina sat back down, and Fabricius sat next to her. “I have changed my mind, please tell me about your patrol today and the slaves you encountered.”

  The request was not what he had hoped for. “Are you sure you want to hear it? Should we not just talk about today’s sparring match? I heard it was eventful.”

  Justina nodded. His attempt to change the subject had failed.

  “Very well. I can see I will get no peace from you until I tell you the story. There were four of them huddled under the bridge heading out of Rome. Two were cowering like scared pups and the other two, clearly the leaders, were vicious, like rabid dogs. Those two were dispatched quickly, one at the scene and the other a short time later at the hands of Caesar. The remaining two have been stretched onto crosses and will join their coconspirators in Tartarus soon.”

  “Caesar killed one of them?”

  “Yes, when they were presented to him. I heard news from Brutus before he took leave.”

  “Does he have the right to do so?”

  “Caesar has the right to do as he wishes,” Fabricius said. “He is not questioned on what he can and cannot do. He just does and Rome accepts.”

  Justina paused for a moment, taking in the account. “How was the first slave killed? Caesar was not at the bridge.”